Too Soon
by elegant-and-supreme
Summary: Her first thought as she steels herself against the revelation is "too soon".


a/n: nyehehe literally the first thing I've written in a year so it kind of sucks but idk it's ok. Set after 1x09 or whenever it makes the most sense. Barely edited so please excuse the minor mistakes. Erm does a bit of plot jumping and the connections aren't that solid but it made sense to me... (a lil bit anti-bash but only because I'm still waiting for the writers to develop him better)

* * *

_Too soon. _Her first thought as she steels herself against the revelation is "_too soon_". That same phrase would grow old within a span of just 6 months.

* * *

It had barely been a month since her wedding to Bash and already she felt the pressure to produce an heir. Regardless, she had a feeling that this situation would less than appease the court. She sits in consternation, methodically gripping her arm with her hand and then easing the pressure. It is much too soon for her gowns to be growing smaller, too soon for it to be an effort for her ladies to lace her in, too soon for her tummy to be slightly plump.

The smell from the dishes her servants left her causes bile to rise in her throat. It is too soon for _that_, to have her nauseated at all times of the day, at absolutely everything. When not nauseated, it is too soon and too much for her to want to be eating everything all at once, all the time. There is literally no in-between for Mary and the timing, or rather lack of time, is frustrating her.

So she looks out the window, takes a deep breath, and longs for something comforting. She doesn't know what she's looking for exactly, a feeling of safety and contentment maybe, a place synonymous to "home". But she doesn't have a home, not really. Scotland is not her home, and has never qualified as a home for her amidst the treachery and lies. The convent might have been her home once, but the reality of her inevitable departure had prevented it from being so. And France, France was most assuredly not her home, though some time ago it had the possibility of becoming a home with –. Her thoughts stop at an abrupt repression and instead she lays her hands on her stomach and worries that if she does not have a home, how can she hope to make one for someone else?

* * *

The next time the phrase "too soon" pops into her mind is for an entirely different reason. Sort of.

She's turning the corner into a passage just as _someone_ else is turning to get out of it, someone she really doesn't want to see. But before her mind can fully register that this is the closest she's been to Francis in months she knows instinctively that it is too, too soon for an encounter like this and too, _too _painful in her current state. They falter for half a moment, which is still more than enough time for self-hatred to fill Mary.

As the pain goes up her throat she realizes quick enough that it's something much more tangible (and incriminating). She panics and retches into the nearest plant urn. The moment his hands come up to scoop her hair and rub her back she swears her body has never been in such a state of hyperawareness. With utmost certainty she curses her damn excess of hormones that, again, were coming ahead of schedule.

She leans back into the urn when the next wave of nausea hits her and this time there are tears in her eyes because when was the last time she even saw Francis, anyway?

_A month_, something in her subconscious replies, not since the wedding where she was forced to go through the motions with what felt like snake venom in her veins. Throughout the whole ceremony she had been desperately scanning the room for even a glimpse of the top of his head. When she finally located it, he was slipping out the back door of the church, mistaken in his assumption that no one there would miss him. She would miss him, she _had _missed him.

She shushes her inner narration, focusing all her concentration on gaining the strength she needs to get out of that room, that position, _now. _

Her shoulders laboriously straighten as if she were Atlas holding up the weight of the world and the hand she uses to wipe her mouth falls on her stomach unthinkingly. His eyes immediately fly down to it and the process of understanding what just happened rolls out like a story across his face. Ever the gentleman, Francis takes the proverbial leap to venture out an overly neutral "Congratulations".

The word acts as a trigger and even as she screams on the inside that the dratted thing is probably his and she probably wouldn't have it any other way she panics and denies everything. "No, I'm not... I mean, I can't be! It's just not.." The skirts of her gown move like water after her and Francis stands in bewilderment at her mutterings of "_too soon_".

* * *

He lifts spoonful after spoonful up to his mouth and she wonders when exactly her neutrality towards Bash took root. She thinks that it has something to do with Bash being disinterested in the friendship she was willing to offer, because it was the only thing she _could_ offer.

It wasn't that she doubted his love for her, it was that she doubted everything else about him. His fixation upon her became a constant so much so that there was an elimination of any other option but reciprocation of the same feelings, something Mary just wasn't ready to give. And when he made her his entire world the things she thought she might some day learn to love had disappeared. In fact, any other trait that didn't have something to do with her had disappeared. She was afraid to question wether he had always been this flat, or if this was something else she had to feel guilt for.

There are times she thinks she can recall the exact moment she gave up on Bash, but in the next though she'd conclude that it was simply something that happened along the way, an inevitable event. The truth is, the consciousness of her never being able to love anyone the way she loved Francis came slowly, then all at once.

It started the first time he came back to court, still broken and still fighting for her. It broke her too, in ways she couldn't even understand. So she held herself together, and told herself that it was simply too soon. The moment he left the castle she breathed out the pain she hadn't let herself feel.

When he came back again she foolishly let down her guard, thinking (hoping) herself healed enough to handle it. But it hit her again, just as hard, just as precise. She swore she could have hunt down and hurt whoever said that nonsense about time and healing wounds. Even trying to get past the lump of remorse in her throat was next to impossible in his presence. For a split second as he was leaving Mary childishly hoped he would never come back. Almost instantly she took it back and replaced it with the self-placation that next time, she'd be okay.

But he returned and the routine of pain & hurt was just heartbreakingly familiar to her. It was then Mary knew it would always be "too soon".

Because you don't get to hope for another Francis, you don't even get to hope for a chance of that. You don't get to pray for another miracle after being awarded one, you do not have the privilege to be so selfish as that. And if you don't get to ask for it, it shouldn't have to be clarified that you don't get to try. So she doesn't try and she falls at a blank when it comes to Bash.

She might have once felt guilt and a certain duty towards Bash, like she owed it to him to try and fall in love together, but truth be told, she was tired. She was tired of having to rule a country by herself, she was tired of being the competent political partner, she was tired of feeling indebted towards Bash for saving Francis and knowing she could never pay Bash back the way he wanted her to. She was tired of being tired, it was all too much, too so-

"Mary?" He cuts her off in her thoughts, snapping her into decisiveness. Her sigh of defeat is inaudible as she breathes out what feels like a death sentence. "I believe I am with child."

* * *

Did the servants honestly think her deaf? The whispers followed her everywhere despite their hushed tones and muffled doubts. It wasn't difficult to ascertain the meaning behind everyone's accusing looks; their faces all screamed the same thing: _too soon_.

The physician estimated with factoring in that her wedding night was only 3 months ago the child in her belly could only be that old. Of course, that was _if _that was the very first opportunity of conception. He looked at her with raised eyebrows and she looked on with an indifferent expression.

Naturally, no one voiced their real opinion on the matter; there was no possible way the baby bump was anything less than 5 months old. The tricky thing was, 5 months ago the queen held the favor of a different dauphin of France.

Still, a queen always deserved the benefit of the doubt from her underlings and the statistics to absolve the queen of any treason wasn't _impossible. _After all, there was always that week she had disappeared with the current dauphin at her side. So hypothetically, no one knew anything (but that didn't stop them from exchanging whispered theories behind the cover of their hands).

In truth, the external dangers of these rumors were of little consequence to Mary. She was a queen after all, and a queen could easily shrug off the twitters of those below her. Rumors only have the potential to cause damage if you don't posses the agency to crush them.

No, it was late at night when she couldn't control her gasping panic that these rumors truly affected her. It was whenever she entertained the notion of "too soon" and what it implied. The possibility would consume her with a desperation she could neither distinguish as averse nor hopeful, which scared her. A lot. She knew better than to want something that could put her country's safety in a precarious position. Always, always, she was a queen before anything else.

* * *

The first time Francis sees her in this new reality he takes a moment to feel everything, all at once, and then nothing. The little defiance he had left in his eyes dies, so he wraps it up and buries it. If he fought for her, if he even tried, it would put Scotland at such a risk that it would break her. To question Bash's legitimacy would be to question her child's legitimacy and due to association, endanger Mary. And Mary _was _Scotland.

The web had entangled to a point that snapping its fragile hangings would be far too easy. Bringing down a section of the web would lead to something he wasn't capable of doing; he would be bringing down Scotland, France, his brother, and Mary. Always Mary. The things in his life had a peculiar way of always finding a way back to her. And he knew it.

Francis leaves at once the next morning, having packed up and left by dawn. There was no such thing as "too soon" in leaving that forsaken place for him.

* * *

For what she hopes will finally be the last time, she utters the words that have been plaguing her for months on end. "Too soon." Her eyes widen and she grips the arms of her chair as she realizes that the baby is finally coming.

"They tell me you're two months early?" there is skepticism in the midwife's voice but when Mary meekly nods her head she simply takes it in stride. She's seen too many girls lying about this kind of thing through their teeth, but as long as it kept death off their birthing beds she was content. Hours later, when she sees the blatant lie written across what is clearly a healthy, 9 month old baby she keeps quiet. Years and years of of this has shown her the that even false peace is just not worth disrupting. Still, the moment she washes off the baby, a question is planted into her head.

Mary's body threatens to pass out but she urges it to hold on, just until she gets to hug her baby close to her. She thinks It's funny how attuned she is to her child, already tracking his every movement and holding her breath in fear for him. So when the midwife stiffens and an inscrutable expression comes upon her face Mary isn't quite sure what to expect.

The midwife turns holding the baby and it's as if Mary's whole body exudes an _oh no _even as her smile continues lighting up her face. As the little boy is passed into her eager arms she cannot help but kiss the soft, _blond _curls lying atop his small head. This little baby could very well cost her her head but that thought doesn't do anything to squash the unabashed happiness filling her heart.

* * *

It takes a few days for her to sit up, straighten her back and swallow the nerves that have her guarding her baby as if she were a lioness. With great trepidation she allows in her first audience since the birth. Not even her husband has been permitted to enter.

Though the clutch of fear her heart feels lessens as the younger _Valois _children enter, a groan nearly escapes her as she anticipates their older brother. Mary learns shortly after however, that by some chance of fate, only the two younger boys were presently in the castle. It gives her leave to breathe a little easier.

It doesn't, however, make the pain any easier to bear. She is once again reminded of how much she has taken from them. But they smile up at her and ask to hold the little baby, and it is the absolute least she can do for them.

They climb abed with her, one on each side, and approach with a little bit of wonder and a little bit of fear in their eyes. Charles, forever the big brother, takes him first from Mary's arms, all anxious smiles and timid pokes. Not long after, Henry is asking for his turn, eagerly reaching across Mary's body while Charles teasingly holds him a little out of reach.

Suddenly, Mary is laughing then Henry is giggling with Charles and there comes a precious little gurgling from the tiny body and everyone turns to look at him with something akin to reverence.

"You know, he doesn't look like Bash." Despite the ignorance with which Charles utters the comment all the muscles in Mary's body tenses up. She attempts to laugh it away with "Silly, that's because he looks like me ." Charles tilts his head and looks on as Henry pulls a face to make the baby giggle. "No... that's not it. He looks a little bit like Henry, though. I mean, his hair is blond!" He looks up at her but the lump in her throat won't go down long enough for her to say something. The door swings open, and she thinks it must be the universe saving her from this questioning child, until the last person she was ready for walked in.

Well, that's not being entirely fair. Francis was probably tied with Bash on that scale.

Francis bows, and smiles a small smile. She smiles back and the way the scene is set makes her forget for a split second that they are not, in fact, a happy family. "He looks like Francis!" Charles exclaims excitedly, innocently, as if he has just figured out the word on the tip of his tongue. Henry looks back and forth from the bundle in his arms to Francis, adamantly nodding his head in exuberant agreement. Mary colors and gathers the baby in her arms, surreptitiously trying to hide him with her body. The pain of possibility on Francis' face is noticed even by his little brothers, regardless of it being misunderstood.

Though she is scared beyond her wits and the only thing she wants to do is order everyone out of her room at once, she leaps over her thoughtlessness to offer Francis something that she may never have the chance to again. She puts on her brave face and in an outwardly playful tone asks the baby in her arms, "Do you want to meet Francis? Hmm, yes I think you do."

Francis' head snaps up and he tentatively sits at the foot of her bed. He smiles with raised eyebrows in greeting but when Mary moves to transfer the baby into his arms he reflexively recoils. The panic splashed across his face has her bursting into laughter.

"Are you _scared_?" she asks in partial surprise. Francis' attempt at defending himself is pitiable; "It's only that I'm not quite sure I'm quite the right person to be carrying a baby." Her eyebrows are raised as she scoots closer to him, shaking her head. "Come now Francis, even your little brothers took turns at carrying him." She hands the baby to Charles as his brothers giggle, her pointed look wearing down his reluctance.

"I don't even know how to hold a baby." She moves across the bed until she is directly in front of him. The closeness should have triggered the situation to be fraught with tension, but the truth is, they only felt how natural the position was for them. "Let's fix that."

She moves his right arm into an angle. "What if I drop him?" He frets with minimal resistance. "You won't." His left arm is moved to complete the cradle position. "What if he cries?" He lets his arms droop. "He won't." She lifts the baby from Charles' arms. "What if he doesn't like me?" There's a hard tone in the question, and Mary knows at once this is his real concern. Her head nods at his arms and they automatically go back into place so she lays the baby in his arms. "He will." The fire in her eyes does more than convince him, it reassures him.

The sight of Francis pacing across the room, bouncing her (their) baby in his arms overwhelms her. It was the very thing she never let herself wish for, and the only thing she got. But she refuses to succumb to regret, because the things she forced herself into have landed her where she is now; a room with her baby and Francis and happiness, if only for the briefest of moments.

Even so, Mary clenches her teeth and moves to face the window as not to show her audience the immense annoyance she feels towards the universe. Because a single afternoon together would not make up for the life Francis would miss, the universe was not even beginning to pay him back for the time that would be lost, the birthdays that would be missed, the games they would never be able to play together. He would never be able to run after his son, watching him shriek in joy and laughter, and it killed Mary. When her eyes start filling with angry tears Francis ushers the two younger boys out of the room, sensing her tension from several feet away.

"Have you chosen a name for him yet?" He directs her attention elsewhere because he doesn't know how to comfort her anymore, how to do it without crossing boundaries that need to be set. And she knows that she relinquished the privilege to be cared for by him long ago, so she answers him. "I haven't actually decided. I'd wanted to name him for his father but -" "But Sebastian is a horrid name for a baby. I completely agree." They both feel the jab of pain his denial causes.

He hands her back the baby long after his brothers have left the room and she invites the warmth she has missed from his small body. The extra time spent together with him will almost certainly cause rumors regarding her impropriety but if it was the least she could give Francis, the _only _thing she could give Francis, then so be it.

He parts with a final word. "I've always liked the name 'James'. You could name him in honor of your father." She smiles down at the baby in her arms, testing it out on her tongue. "'James' it is, then."

* * *

The warm bundle in her arms serves as her only anchor amidst the unease washing over her and threatening to drag her down. In nearly a week she hasn't been able to release her hold of little James but for short periods of time. Except to Francis, of course. Of course.

Even now, in her husband's study, which is honestly the _last _place she should be bringing him, she holds on tight. And she knows that there is no force on earth that would ever have her let go of him, not even the future king of France. So when Bash enters the room she stands up as she was taught to from a young age; she stands like a queen.

Both pairs of eyes turn to the body in her arms as it cries out something that sounds like defiance. It pushes Bash into steely resolve at once. "Mary, he cannot stay." Her head snaps up, their eyes meet and she answers before his sentence is even complete. "He will." "I suppose you'll have him ruling France as well?" He challenges her. "Yes, that is exactly what I expect of him." And just like that it's become a battle for dominance between two of the most powerful people in Europe.

"They will not accept him as their king." He is determined in this sentiment and she is _this _close to referencing his own bastard roots but she reigns herself in; you don't win by making low blows. "The nobility are overjoyed! All around the castle they've been making remarks about things going back to how it should be." Instead, she appeals to practicality & reason. "It's a two-faced reason, but finally you will have the full support of the french court on your side. And the little who will whisper about it _can _be quieted." Her insides cheer when she sees it working in the way he hesitates before speaking. "And the people?" In the gentlest, most convincing tone she's able to conjure in her current state she attempts to pacify his doubts. "The people have always loved Francis, so they will love him." At the sound of his brother's name his reservations come rushing back. "I cannot allow this. He is an uncertainty, he will pull out the roots of everything we've built. He will endanger us."

For a moment Mary stands aghast, grasping just how right she had been when she imagined he would do anything for her. Only in the wrong way. He would do anything for her _to stay his. _And he saw this as a way of losing her.

So she chooses to appeal to this side of him instead, only wishing to leave the room as quick as possible now. "What would you have me do? Queens are not allowed bastards, would you have them take my head?" Bash hesitates and for a minute she thinks he must have seen reason, but only until he speaks again. "We could send him away, keep him in hiding and announce that an accident stole his life.."

Out of frustration and a general sense of being done with the conversation, the opposition, _him,_ Mary abruptly walks towards the doors effectively ending the conversation. With her hand on the doorknob she talks straight to door, as if too disgusted to even turn and look back at him. "He will rule Scotland if France will not have him."

Bash knew she was really saying "If _you _will not have him." And Mary knew that she had finally found the one thing she would put before being a queen.

* * *

The letter in her hands feels like the safety net she's been searching for but also the trigger that could actualize all her fears.

She wonders about the English queen's apparent liking for her son. She wonders about the implications of having her son fostered in England. She wonders why the English queen would be willing to name a rumored bastard for an heir. She wonders if it is _because_ he is a rumored bastard that the English queen is willing to name him as an heir.

Mary, queen of Scots, wonders and then she deliberates.

* * *

Scotland's flag mingles with that of France's as the boat it is tethered to sails away. Her final look is lingering, but the moment her eyes leave the ship she has retreated back into stoicism and the walls she's put up around herself.

A hand reaches out to catch her arm and effectively delay her from entering her carriage. "Are you sure about this?" His voice is stifled, as if trying to control an inclination and at first it fills her with anger. There have been too many people questioning her decisions, people who have no right to doubt her judgements as a mother. But then she looks at Francis again and she sees that what he's trying to control is _concern. _He's not asking her if she really thinks it was the right political move, or if it would discredit her as a queen in the eyes of the public, and he's the first one not to. He's asking her if she's ever going to be okay again. So she answers him.

"The first time I held him I knew there would be people who would want to take him away from me. I swore I would never let him go. And now I've given him away." He keeps quiet because by now he's known her long enough to be able to tell when she has more on her mind. "And you know I do not want England. I have never wanted England. But if England will take James and if England will protect him, then so be it. These are the choices I have made, and I know my thoughts will never cease strangling me at night with uncertainty but these are choices I would make again if I had to."

He hesitates before speaking but plunges ahead when he sees they've come to a standstill. "I told you once I would pressure you, and argue with you and –." Mary notices for the first time his hand still at her elbow, and she places hers atop his in understanding. He continues after she flashes him a tentative smile. "I know I have lost that privilege," he barrels on when she tries to deny it "but know that I support you in this. I trust you." Her nod of gratitude is absently made by a mind striving to process everything.

With one foot in the carriage she realizes what she's needed to say to him all along. "I am doing this for France, for Scotland, for James and for _you. _So no, I am not _okay_ right now but I think I will be."

Before the carriage doors shut she mentions something, as if it were simply an afterthought. "And Francis? In around a month's time you will be sent as a French envoy to the English court. I pray you will represent us well." The double meaning is not lost on him as the carriage is pulled away. He marvels at the chance she has given him, the chance of being there for his son and watching him grow up, even if she herself is robbed of it.

* * *

The crown is placed upon her only son's head and she smiles. It's a smile of tremendous relief after a long and tiring life. The only person in the room who could possibly be prouder than she ventures out a murmur. "Most royals would not abdicate a throne so young. And look so happy about it." The wry humor in his voice doesn't even cause her to roll her eyes anymore. "Oh, Francis. I'm not young. I haven't been young for a long time now." His sidelong glance is accompanied by his ever charming grin. "I remember all those years ago, when you first arrived from the convent and I set eyes on you, I remember being thrown by your beauty." She remembers counting herself lucky beyond words. "I still am, everyday. We haven't grown _that_ old, Mary."

Emotion wells up inside of her, and in a rare moment of acceptance she lets it stay. But she cannot let it show, not at her son's coronation. Instead she changes the subject, with no care to how obvious she's being.

"This is what he needed to cement his right to an empire, and so I gave it to him. How could I not?" Once again he is reminded of just how much she has had to sacrifice in her life. "And you backed his claim when no other heirs were provided." "I sent him away when that was the only thing I could do to ensure his safety." She offers a continuation, curious as to where he was leading the conversation. "You married my brother to save me." Even now there remains a sliver of bitterness in the corner of his smile. She wishes she could wipe it away. "I gave you up because I had to." The tone in her voice is light but wistful and somehow that hurts even more. He takes her hand in his, familiarity sown into its lines and his grip. "But I let you." And for the first time in what may be forever, they are on the same boat. "And this is where we are now."

In this moment of understanding she dares to hope aloud. "Long may he reign."


End file.
